Parenting is a delicate balance of patience, love, and holding onto your sanity with a thin thread. But every now and then, that thread snaps—and last night, mine snapped hard...

Seriously, what's the purpose of a raised Dually truck? I mean, let’s break it down. You’re hauling what, exactly? A barn? A small country? It’s like someone looked at the monster truck and thought, "Yeah, let’s tone it down juuuust enough to drive it to Walmart."

It's a typical Tuesday evening. The house is calm, dinner plates are still in the sink, and the muffled sounds of online warfare seep from behind his closed door. Then, the volume crescendos—explosions, gunfire, and, inevitably, the guttural screams of a 14-year-old losing at a game he swears he’s the best at. "Bruh, oh my God," he shrieks, hammering his keyboard as if smashing 'W' and 'D' simultaneously will somehow resurrect his character. He YEETS his headset and pushes away from his disheveled landscape of snack wrappers, Dorito dust and water bottles just for the chaos to unfold. His eyes blaze with fury; his face contorts into a Picasso painting of adolescent angst. And then, in a grand finale worthy of an MMA fighter delivering the knockout blow, his foot rises, and the wall…well, the wall becomes a casualty of war..

At 39, I had it all figured out—well, at least that’s what I thought. Single dad, checking all the boxes: loving my daughter, going to work, living life. I had settled into the comfort of my own solitude, like an old, familiar sweater. Love? Yeah, I’d given up on that. Not in the bitter, heartbroken way—more in the "I’ve made peace with it" kind of way. The silence was nice, the routine soothing. I found a certain serenity in loneliness, convincing myself that maybe this was it. Peace, at last.

The day I proposed was meant to be perfect, or at least that was the plan.

It all began innocently enough. My daughter came over, the usual blend of hugs, laughter, and… congestion. I noticed the sniffles but, being a hopeful optimist or delusional parent, I thought, "Oh, it’s probably allergies. She’ll be fine." I couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried. Little did I know that slight congestion was a Trojan horse, carrying an army of germs ready to wage biological warfare on our entire household.

Ah, the morning commute—a ritual as old as time itself, where bleary-eyed humans attempt to pilot two-ton metal boxes while simultaneously balancing a cup of coffee, scrolling through Spotify, and maybe even checking Instagram. But amidst this chaotic ballet of brake lights and lane changes, there exists a magical concept called "the right of way." A concept so simple, so fundamental, yet so utterly misunderstood by a staggering percentage of drivers.

In the epic chronicles of parenting, there are nights you look back on with a chuckle, and then there are nights that make you wonder if you’re secretly starring in some twisted reality show. Tonight was definitely the latter...

Ah, the thrilling morning adventure of Interstate 24 from Clarksville to Nashville. It’s not just a commute; it’s a survival game where only the strong—or the caffeinated—make it out unscathed. You start your journey with optimism, your car’s fuel tank full and your coffee cup even fuller. But the moment you start to merge onto I-24, and four drivers ahead of you treat the on-ramp like a chaotic zipper lane, refusing to yield as they merge with reckless abandon the light in your hopeful eyes begin to dim.